The Real World: Taxi Brousse

"This is the true story...of 9 strangers (and sometimes a goat)... crammed into one broke ass sedan...forced to ride together under the hot desert sun...to find out what happens...when people stop being polite...and start getting real. The Real World: Taxi Brousse."

Anyone who has traveled abroad can attest that foreign transportation is a veritable goldmine of adventure. The eccentric characters, the nearly-missed connections, the baffling maze of airport gates, and the multitude of other factors all combine to create anecdotes which are forever cemented in one’s memory. When I visited Ghana three summers ago, its system of mass transport via trotro certainly proved true to form. Indeed, I can still recall the absolute shock I felt upon discovering that it was a goat I felt under my seat and not the excessively hairy leg of my friend. Similarly, though my father did his best to pilot our manual diesel rental car in Spain, we did not escape unscathed. I wonder how many heart attacks we caused Spaniards with our herky jerky navigation of Seville’s narrow allies and steep garage ramps. Alas, though lacking many of the elements present in Ghana and Spain, my travels in Mauritania have confirmed this general trend. Interesting tales of transport, both good and bad, are in abundance after only 4 months in country as I will soon relate.

Mauritania is a fairly large country and is, therefore, already difficult to traverse. However, when busted Mercedes and Peugot rejects from the 80s are forced into battle with a 100+ heat index and veritable mountains of sand which stir with each breeze, the already long journey becomes that much more "interesting." As you can well imagine, I have heard countless horror stories of taxi brousse from former and current volunteers. Fortunately, I have been spared many of the unbearable elements of such travel thus far. For example, never have I had a screaming baby hoisted upon me nor have I had to endure any conversion attempts or slandering of all things American. That does not mean that I am without any notches on my proverbial belt though. Actually, I have acquired quite a few in the past two weeks when I decided to venture beyond the bounds of my beloved Tidjikja.

As the end of Ramadan neared and the society of Tidjikja became increasingly anxious to finish their difficult rite of penance, I decided a change of scenery was in order. After nearly a month at site, it was time to tour some of the other jewels in the Tagant region. My first stop: Gnimlane, a brousse site about 26km outside of Tidjikja and home to one of closest friends. The 40-minute journey to this site was relatively uneventful aside from the 3 hour wait which preceded it. Though I had been warned repeatedly about Mauritanian’s lax conception of time and even appreciate it at times, I couldn’t help but become frustrated by its interference with my plans. I had wanted to leave at 2 and instead left at 5. No matter. Once we were en route, I did a mental shrug and was soon taken in conversation with a Senegalese Rastafarian who was working in Tidjikja. It was my first opportunity to really speak French after one month at site, and I was grateful even if I had to wait 3 hours for it. Plus I exited the taxi with an invite to sample some Senegalese cuisine once he returns from Nouakchott :)

After a short respite in Gnimlane during which we celebrated Ead (the end of Ramadan) and entertained the community with our American antics, we were ready to taxi again. But not before I fended off several marriage proposals and received a plate with meat and potatoes immediately after explaining that I was a vegetarian. (Haha, they just don’t seem to get it). Two days after arriving, we hitched another ride and high-tailed it to Nbeika, an oasis at the edge of the region’s border.

Again, this taxi brousse ride was not without incident. At first, everything seemed to progress smoothly. Our driver was traveling to Nouakchott and offered to cart us along in return for gas money. Though this would constitute carpooling in the States and would generally be smiled upon, it is considered an illegal activity in Mauritania for anyone who is not an official taxi driver. Subsequently, at every gendarme stop en route to Nbeika, we were given the evil eye and a severe chastising. Yet we drove away each time without having to pay a charge, so all seemed well until the last 5km of our journey. At that point, the car began to jerk and sputter and finally came to a stop but a few miles away from our destination. Ahh, such is life en taxi brousse… With the late morning sun beating down on us, the six of us heave ho’ed and pushed our chariot back into life. Yes! Victory! We hopped back in the car, cruised for another kilometer and then came to a halt again. To complete the story, reread the above four more times.

Fortunately, our trip out to MocMata the next morning proved far less eventful and much smoother despite the considerably rougher terrain. Regardless the prize at the end of the journey would have been worth the worst taxi brousse ride. Mocmata is a hidden gem in the Tagant. Its burgundy, rust, and gold painted walls tower over a canyon bed strewn with tiny pools and lazy crocodiles which snap and sun alternately. While we only spent two days enjoying MocMata’s splendor, it was a welcome respite. I even got to go swimming - an activity which is nearly impossible in any Islamic country. Of course, as chance would have it, a sandstorm flooded the canyon and kept us wading in our pool till the storm’s energy was spent…or so we thought. While hiking up the canyon walls after our dip, the sandstorm reared its ugly head yet again. We eventually made it back to our campsite looking like a pack of antique Roman statues. I have since concluded that sandstorms are more formidable opponents than crocodiles.

Though our trip to MocMata was relatively uneventful, I cannot conclude this entry on travel and transportation in Mauritania without relating what happened no more than a week later. I was crammed into the middle seat of a Peugot with two large Moor women whose starchy mulafas knew no boundaries. Despite the lack of space and suffocating fabric, it had been a pretty good journey. We had just passed the halfway point, making good time, and were careening down the mountainside. That’s when it happened. The car door closest to me sprung open leaving me exposed to the craggy depths below. Shock was quickly replaced by fear and then by a fervent desire to save my life. Somehow, I was able to hold on to the door while yelling at the driver to stop in a series of different languages and expletives. Naturally, he didn’t stop till we came to the bottom, several minutes later. Perhaps he didn’t hear me or perhaps he thought I was strong enough to survive the gaping precipice below. Regardless, I viewed him in a little darker a light for the rest of the journey, and I now perceive the expression, "precious cargo" in a whole new way.

I have no doubt that other adventures en taxi brousse will arise over the course of the next two years. After all, each ride is like an episode of The Real World, always crammed full of drama. However ridiculous my future exploits en taxi brousse, inshallah, they will all conclude with me arriving safely at my destination. In any case, you can be sure that I will keep you all posted on any other interesting moments which warrant attention.

Aside from my adventures en route, life here has begun to assume some semblance of a routine though still with a touch of the bizarre. I run alongside a pack of camels a few mornings each week and then trip over to the hospital for a few hours. Most people there believe me to be a doctor, and so I spend a good 15% of my time explaining that, indeed, I do not have my medical degree. As if I wasn’t already thinking about a 180 career change, the disbelief and disappointment on the faces of patients when I tell them that I am neither a doctor nor a sage femme is impetus enough to compel anyone into the profession. The other 85% of my time there has been divided between computer and typing lessons with my counterpart, Ghallet, general observation, and reorganizing the dust-choked library. In general, work and community integration is progressing much more quickly now, and I am trying to observe as much as possible in anticipation of future health education projects. For my next entry, I’ll be able to elaborate a little more in those respects. Till then, maa selaam!